Why Sam & Dean Hate Halloween
by Red Bess Rackham
Summary: Halloween was inevitably a busy time of year for them. Something about the time of year coupled with the phase of the moon or something made the beasties and spirits more active, and this year is no different. God, Dean hated Halloween. (Oneshot.)


**Disclaimer:** Entertainment purposes only, don't own the rights, etc.

**A/n:** This was written for the Spooky Swap over at The Beta Branch, off of the prompt given to me by phoenixqueen. Thanks to the ladies for the edits and feedback - remaining mistakes are all me. ;)

HAPPY HALLOWEEN! :D

**Warning**: moderate language & moderate fandom typical gore/violence

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><p><strong>Why Sam &amp; Dean Hate Halloween<strong>

"Sammy," Dean murmured. He pushed himself up off the floor with shaking arms, and spit out the blood gathering in his mouth. He struggled to his knees, his limbs aching, and pressed a quivering hand to the gash in his chest, trying to stem the flow of blood soaking his shirt.

His brother loomed over him, face twisted with anger, red-soaked fingers clutching his knife.

"Sam, wait…" Dean's eyes stung with tears.

Sam sneered and raised the blade.

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><p><em>5 hours earlier<em>

The motel room was one of the less ugly ones they'd rented, Dean supposed, but it was still not terribly appealing. The wall that the beds were shoved up against was wallpapered with some faded clashing flower pattern, while the other walls were painted an off-putting sort of puce color.

The carpet was ancient and trampled flat from years of guests, and though now it was an unappealing brownish color, it had clearly once been brilliant, 70's orange, judging by the threads lining the very edges of the room. The oddly modern and fairly new black table and chairs were starkly out of place, and there was the lingering scent of stale cigarette smoke lacing the air, though it was supposedly a non-smoking room.

"Conclusion?" asked Dean tiredly. He stood up from the said-modern (and actually pretty uncomfortable) chair he'd been figuratively chained to for the past three hours as he and Sam researched their newest case.

Sam shrugged. "Vengeful spirit? Typical haunted house scenario?"

Dean crossed the dingy motel room to the fridge in the far corner and retrieved a beer. It wasn't as cold as he'd have liked, but he supposed for how little they were paying for the room, he couldn't really complain that the fridge was subpar. He cracked the bottle open and took a deep swig nonetheless, thinking.

"Even with the missing bodies?"

"Well, they're _assumed_ missing," said Sam. "It's not like anyone has volunteered to go over the place with a fine tooth comb. The police said they won't even go near it given the house's history – pranks, weird happenings, whatever. In fact, they're currently insisting that's all this is: a hoax. That it happens every year."

"No one has volunteered to visit the probable-death-house, except us, that is." Dean sighed, settling back into his chair across from Sam.

"Except us," his brother agreed grimly.

"And right before Halloween – _lucky_ us." Dean grimaced. "Figures."

Halloween was inevitably a busy time of year for them. Not only were there always several dozen fake cases, which always turned out to merely be pranks, but the spirits and monsters and other nasty beasties really _did_ become more active around this time of year. Something about the time of year coupled with the phase of the moon or something, according to Bobby. It was why there were all the old stories about Hallow's Eve and the whole humans-hiding-in-plain-sight-from-demons thing.

It hadn't always been an excuse for candy and costumes. Still wasn't, in his opinion, but the world was an ignorant place when it came to the supernatural underworld and all its creepy friends.

"Yeah, our favorite time of year," Sam said dryly.

"Investigating a haunted house on Halloween – it's ironic. And also somehow just like old times." Dean sipped at his beer again before asking, "How far away is it again?"

"From here?" Sam turned his attention to his laptop for a moment. "Three and a half hours, give or take."

Dean nodded. "Then let's get it over with."

* * *

><p>The old Gorschwitz place certainly <em>looked<em> like a haunted house, Dean had to admit. The place was tall and dark and rickety, with broken and boarded up windows, peeling paint, and an ugly rust-colored stain decorating the open front door.

Dean frowned. "Blood on that door should be a pretty obvious _keep the hell away _sign, wouldn't you think?"

Sam adjusted his grip on the salt-loaded shotgun he had slung over his shoulder. "People are stupid."

"Ain't that truth."

Dean gingerly crossed the threshold of the house, noting the drop in temperature from the porch to the foyer. He kept his gun up and ready as his eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness, but initially saw nothing amiss. For one thing, there were no corpses as they'd been expecting.

He crept forward, every sense heightened and on the alert for the angry ghost said to be haunting the place. Four missing people in a week, all last seen heading towards this house, had been all the evidence the boys needed to tackle the case. That, and the rumors that screams could be heard at night coming from the old Gorschwitz place, pointed to the likely possibility of a spirit. The boys knew it could very well be something else, however, and ensured the Impala was stocked with a wide variety of weapons and supplies just in case.

So far, the house appeared empty and still, and the idea that it was a hoax after all was looking pretty good. A cautious check of the bottom floor revealed no furious ghost, and no evidence of the missing people. The dusty floors depicted multiple footprints, but that meant little: it was apparently a common local dare to run inside this place to prove one's bravery.

_Or stupidity,_ thought Dean with a flash of irritation. How many times had he and Sammy run into dumb local kids searching for a thrill in the middle of something genuinely dangerous? _Especially_ on stupid Halloween?

"Hmm," Sam mumbled behind him as the pair entered the kitchen area. "Nothing coming up on the EMF."

Dean glanced over his shoulder to see Sam pointing the small homemade machine in every direction. The readings were stubbornly normal.

"Really? I was expecting it to light up like a Christmas tree," Dean muttered. "You sure it's working?"

"Yeah, of course," Sam replied. He gave it shake as if that would change things. "I checked it before we left. Unless the ghost is somehow exclusively upstairs, I think we're wrong about this one."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

They moved beyond the kitchen to the living room area. The couch was falling apart at the seams and thick with filth of years gone by without care. Here, there were a few broken lamps, but the glass was so yellowed it was impossible to tell if the breaks were recent or not.

"Just seems like a pretty low key crime scene if it's something that took four people," said Dean, leading his brother through the living room and back towards the stairs.

Sam cocked his eyebrow and repeated his brother's words, "Wouldn't be the first time."

Dean started up the stairs first, Sam following close behind and watching their six. At the top landing, Dean finally discovered something that confirmed they were in the right place, and not in fact on a wild ghost chase.

"Sammy," Dean said and pointed.

On the landing was a large, dark stain of dried blood, no more than a few days old. Long streaks had been made in the pool when it was still wet, going both ways down the hallway as if something had been dragged back and forth through it.

Dean frowned. Of course this was an everyday reality of their job, and they dealt with death and whatever, but it never felt right and it never felt okay to know people had died and they hadn't been able to save them in time. It didn't matter the situation, Dean always felt a twinge of guilt knowing he hadn't ganked something soon enough to prevent loss of life.

He moved past the feeling, the usual wave of determination to destroy evil creatures washing over him. Dean pressed on down the hallway to the right where the wide streaks of dried blood seemed to be the most concentrated. As he approached the bedroom door, his heart began to thud in his chest.

The smell of old blood was strong, cloying and mixed with the scent of ashes and burnt flesh, and Dean tried not to gag. He reached out to push the half-open door, bracing himself for what he was about to find.

Dean and Sam had seen tons of messed up crap, but as they stared around the room, Dean realized the scene before them was fast climbing his list of The Weirdest, and that was really saying something.

For starters, all four walls of the bedroom were covered in bloody handprints, like some sort of sick, macabre finger-painting. Some of the prints seemed very specific and deliberate, while others were haphazard smears. The bed had been moved to the center of the room and was blackened and charred down to the empty metal bedframe as if it'd been lit on fire. Lumpy ashes covered the floor beneath it.

"What… the hell…" said Dean, moving slowly into the room, eyes darting to the empty closet and back.

"Uh…" was all Sam seemed able to manage.

Across the room on the windowsill were four skulls in a terrible, neat little row. All four were burnt as if pulled too late from the fire that assumedly burnt the bed, though one skull had a rusty line of dried blood around the teeth like lipstick. Beside the window affixed to the wall, was a small brown corkboard framed by dead flowers. Dean's brow furrowed and he approached it to get a better look.

"Okay, Sammy, this is _really_ fucking weird," Dean said as he stared at the corkboard in front of him. Despite everything they'd seen in the last few years, this _had_ to be one of the most bizarre. Four Polaroid photos of one woman's face had been tacked to the wall, and a long, sharp knife was buried almost to the hilt in the one that featured her blood-red lips.

He glanced at the four skulls on the windowsill and back.

"I think we found our four missing victims," he said. "And which skull belongs to knife-in-the-face, here."

Sam came up beside him to view the pictures as well. He frowned sadly. "Yeah, that's Sherry Jones – victim #4."

"We still thinkin' ghost?" asked Dean skeptically, facing the bizarre room again. "'Cause right now I'm getting more of a Pagan ritual sacrifice, _Criminal Minds_ psycho-killer type vibe."

Sam chewed his lip thoughtfully. "Yeah, pretty sure it's not a ghost." He double-checked the EMF meter, and sure enough, it was quiet. "Maybe we should check Dad's book – see if there's anything helpful."

Dean nodded. "Might as well." He gestured to the door to the bedroom. "I'll make sure there isn't anything we need to worry about in the other two bedrooms." He headed into the hallway.

"I'll back you up," said Sam, pocketing his small EMF device and trading it for his knife.

"Naw, we found the main attraction. I'll be down in a sec."

Sam nodded in agreement, and when they reached the stairs, Dean continued forward and Sam headed down, the steps creaking softly as he went.

Sure enough, the first bedroom certainly appeared to be the only interesting one. The bathroom was empty, dusty, and as filthy as the rest of the house. The second bedroom was the same, and void of furniture. In the third, there were the splintered remains of what Dean assumed was once a dresser. Broken pieces of tarnished mirror littered the floor amongst discarded, faded, moth-eaten clothes.

Dean replaced his gun in the waistband of his jeans. He had growing suspicions about what had caused the grisly set-up in bedroom #1, and none of them were ones he liked.

_Damn Halloween,_ he thought with a grumble. _Always bringing out the worst and the weird and the wacky._

He turned on his heel and swore loudly, startled to find Sam standing silently in the doorway.

"Dude! Do _not_ sneak up on me while we are in a creepy old house!" he admonished. "You're lucky I didn't still have my gun out, or I might've shot you." He gave his head an irritated shake. "Well? That was quick – you find anything?"

"No," said Sam, shaking his head.

"Well, it was worth a try," Dean sighed and raked his hand through his hair, making it stick up. "Back to the motel, I guess. We can come back tomorrow."

"We can come back tomorrow," Sam agreed. His fist was clenched tight at his side, Dean noticed, and his brother seemed… stiff.

"You okay?" he asked, peering with concern at Sam.

"I'm tired," his brother replied. "I am okay."

"All right, if you say so," said Dean lightly, and offered his brother a casual smile. "You just seem a little… weird."

Sam laughed, and he leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest, releasing that tight fist. "Everything about this is weird. Sorry, I'm just…" he scrubbed his hand over his face. "With everything…"

"Sure," Dean nodded, dropping his gaze to his shoes. "'Course."

There was no need to explain. Dad dying, Dean's deal… it was a lot. It was always a lot – there wasn't a single day when everything they'd been through didn't feel like an overwhelming tidal wave about to drown them – _him_.

But that wasn't why Sam seemed off. And they both knew it.

All at once, Dean spun, reaching for his gun, and Sam lunged across the room. The younger man collided with his brother and the pair went tumbling to the ground with a mighty crash. Dean's gun went clattering across the old wooden floorboards. Dean shoved his brother and scrabbled for the gun, but Sam popped to his feet and kicked it hard, sending it skittering out the door into the hallway. His eyes flashed orange and he bared his teeth in a feral growl.

Dean barely had time to vault to a standing position before Sam was tackling him again. The pair slammed into the wall, Dean taking the brunt of the impact on his shoulder, then they fell to the floor. Sam's knees crashed into Dean's back, and Sam's fist came pounding sideways into his brother's ribs, shoving the air out his lungs.

Dean twisted and rolled, and managed to lash out and land a kick to Sam's chest, making him grunt and gasp with pain. The younger man reeled and suddenly had his knife in his grasp. Dean scrambled backwards on his hands trying to catch his breath and Sam darted forward with an inhuman roar, slashing wildly. The blade cut across Dean's chest and he cried out before he was able to land an elbow in his brother's face.

The younger man barely registered the blow and instead brought his fist slamming into Dean's mouth – and again, again, _again_. Dean saw stars and swung his arm up blindly, vainly trying to get Sam away from him. Sam grasped his brother's collar, and yanked him forward with an incredible force, sending Dean clear across the room to smash into the bedroom wall alongside the destroyed vanity.

Through blurry eyes, Dean had a split-second to see the reflection of Sam in the mirror shards: a black creature, with a wide open maw and hideous orange eyes.

_Roktli_, he thought. _Shit – of course!_

Then the thing had grasped his neck and tossed him like a rag doll to land in a heap under the cracked, aged window.

Dean blinked and glimpsed a shadow beyond Sam. The younger man approached slowly, Dean's blood spattered across his boots.

"Sammy," Dean murmured. He pushed himself up off the floor with shaking arms, and spit out the blood gathering in his mouth. He struggled to his knees, his limbs aching, and pressed a quivering hand to the gash in his chest, trying to stem the flow of blood soaking his shirt.

His brother loomed over him, face twisted with anger, red-soaked fingers clutching the demon knife.

"Sam, wait…" Dean's eyes stung with tears.

Sam sneered and raised the blade.

_Now_, he thought.

Several gunshots rang out, and Dean rolled to the side as "Sam" tumbled forward, chest smoking. His real brother stood in the doorway with Dean's smoking gun, looking scratched, bruised, and worse for the wear, but otherwise unharmed.

_Silver bullet to the spine,_ Dean thought with a small smile. _Atta boy._

The body of the creature that was previously masquerading as Sam writhed, an unearthly wail coming out of the mouth that was suddenly too wide and too black to be his brother's. Dean backed away as Sam – real, _thank you God_, Sam – came farther into the room, emptying his clip into the creature.

It hissed and screamed, struggling to morph, its face molding into new faces only to change again instantly, the skin becoming black like ink spreading on a paper. Then all at once, it burst into green flames, and a flash of ice cold air blasted past the boys, knocking them off their feet.

Dean lay panting for a moment with relief in the near silence and then Sam was above him holding out his hand. Dean took it gratefully as Sam helped him to stand.

"You okay?" asked Sam, bruised face creased with worry.

Dean glanced down at his chest, which had stopped bleeding, and gave a quick nod.

"When'd you figure out it was a Roktli?"

"Eh, knew something was hinky," said Dean. He would've shrugged if it didn't hurt so much. "Wasn't positive until I caught it in the mirror. Knew it was some sort of shifter. You were just… _off._"

"Yeah, by the time I got to the car, it clicked – the ashes and skulls, four in one week, the focus on one victim… the whole set-up. Roktlis kill with fire, and keep trophies." Sam explained, gently putting Dean's arm across his shoulders and helping him limp to the hallway.

Dean was too grateful to roll his eyes and make a smart-ass remark about Sam's Wikipedia-reciting capabilities.

"Should've realized it sooner with the showy set-up in that bedroom, and the cold air downstairs," Sam continued. He added thoughtfully, "The mimicking must've been how it lured them all here – went into the town, became someone familiar…"

"Yeah, well," Dean winced. He swiped his free hand across his eyes, trying fruitlessly to clear away the sweat and blood there. "It wasn't a very good mimic. I knew something was funky pretty quick."

"Mimics aren't like shifters," Sam reminded his brother. "Shifters are virtually flawless, and can use memories and stuff. Mimics, well… mimic."

"Whatever it is," said Dean, struggling to limp down the stairs despite his brother's help. "It beat the crap out of me."

Sam chuckled. "It really did. Sorry – I tried to come right away, but once I grabbed the silver bullets, I couldn't get back. It'd shut the door on me and must've warded it somehow – I had to smash in one of the boarded windows in the kitchen."

They reached the bottom of the stairs and Dean took a moment to collect his stamina before attempting walking again. That thing had thrashed him more than he wanted admit. Thankfully, whatever the monster had done to the front door to keep Sam out was no longer in place, as they had no trouble opening it up and hobbling out to the porch.

The fading afternoon sun greeted them, and Dean squinted at its brilliance compared to the dim, decrepit house. Sam gingerly helped Dean across the brown grass to the Impala, and it was a sign of Dean's pain that he handed over the keys without comment. He hissed and grunted as he situated himself in the passenger's seat. Briefly he mourned that he'd be getting blood on the seat, but it was hardly the first time. And given their track record, it wouldn't be the last.

"You okay?" Sam asked, glancing at his brother anxiously. "Is there anything I can do…?"

"Drive," Dean groaned, letting his eyes slide shut. He'd had worse beatings, really – he just needed a handful of aspirin, a bed, and some gauze. "And I swear to God, promise me: next Halloween we find a bunker and _stay there_. Let literally anyone else deal with this kind of shit."

Sam chuckled, and his voice was edged with relief as he answered, "It's a deal."

**-end-**

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><p><strong>An: **Thanks for reading! Feedback always appreciated. :)


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